Dangling Conversations
by DeniseV
Summary: Milt and Mark talk on the way home from Oregon. A follow-on to my story Good Luck Charm, which was itself a follow-on to the episode She Ain't Deep But She Sure Runs Fast.


The tall, green lushness of the trees that dotted the landscape of the state of Oregon made way for the even taller green trees of northern California. All of that green majesty had become an annoying complement to the blue mood of the curly-headed man in the passenger seat of the pick-up. Mark McCormick pushed the eject button on the truck's cassette player. Judge Milton C. Hardcastle, point man for driving on this trip home, noticed the action, a first as long as he'd known the young man. McCormick rubbed his temple, sighed, and turned to the driver.

"Can we pull over?" he asked softly. There was a hint of irritation in the tone.

"Sure. You feelin' sick again?" the judge asked with concern.

"No, I'm not feeling sick again," Mark countered angrily. "I wanna know what's going on."

"What's going on? Whaddya mean?" Hardcastle kept driving, conveniently avoiding eye contact with his obviously aggravated friend.

"You. You've hardly said a word since we left. And you've let me play two tapes, straight through. Something's not right."

"_I've_ hardly said a word? What about you? Nobody would mistake you for Little Miss Chatterbox today."

"It gives me a headache to talk," Mark conceded.

"And that music doesn't?"

"No." Mark looked at the judge and said accusingly, "You're changing the subject. Why?"

"I'm not even sure what the subject is, McCormick!" the judge yelled back, angry that he'd been caught in his effort to, indeed, change the subject. He wasn't sure he was ready to talk to the kid just yet. He'd found a nice, comfortable rhythm in the drive so far, happy to be putting some distance between them and Oregon, a state that Hardcastle was pretty sure he and McCormick would not return to for a long, long time. McCormick's music had even helped in setting a pace for this excursion south and home to Gulls Way. Hardcastle was surprised at how good some of the songs were, though he was sure he'd give up a limb before he would ever let his young friend in on _that_ secret.

"The subject is that I wanna talk about whatever's going on with you."

"Nothing's going on with me! I'm driving us home!"

McCormick rubbed his head once more. Resignedly and, with a put-upon sigh, he uttered, "Fine." He looked to the judge for any sign of a concession, some hint that he would be willing to talk about whatever it was that he was keeping bottled up. All he got was Hardcastle facing dead ahead, his mouth shut tight. Tight-lipped Hardcastle. It might not be a first, but it was a frustration to the young man that it was so easily expected. Mark sighed and said, "I'm going to try to take a nap."

"Sounds like you need one," the judge answered back sarcastically. He grimaced and nearly let out a hiss after he said it, knowing it was unfair to make a judgment like that with McCormick sick, and both of them just a couple of days removed from a pretty harrowing experience. Out of the corner of his eye, Hardcastle noticed McCormick's entire body seem to flinch, his body language at the judge's smart retort far too familiar. It reminded him of someone getting hit by a bullet; Milt knew, better than your average jurist, what that felt like. The judge knew that Mark actually had been _figuratively_ hit - by a verbal bullet. He watched as McCormick turned himself to the passenger door. The GMC truck wasn't exactly made for comfort, at least not for someone who was already sick and uncomfortable. This _new_ body language told him, as definitively as anything verbal, that Mark had finished talking. For now.

Hardcastle kept driving for a few more miles. He looked over to McCormick, who looked pretty miserable, and asked, "You asleep?" He already knew from the tense set of the tall frame that he wasn't.

"No," Mark replied morosely.

"How're ya feelin'?" Hardcastle asked. He knew the answer to this question, too.

"Like crap."

Hardcastle checked his watch. "Ya know, we got a pretty early start today, and we've made good time. I know it's not quite eleven, but I could eat some lunch. How 'bout you?"

"Not hungry."

"Tell ya what. We'll stop soon, find ourselves a nice place to eat. Maybe you'll feel differently when you catch the aroma of home cookin'."

"Yeah, that days-old grease smell really perks up my appetite."

"Ah, it'll be fine. And if you're not hungry, you can watch me eat," the judge replied with a Cheshire Cat grin, knowing he would earn a smart crack back from McCormick.

"Sounds like fun."

Okay. So the kid was a little off on the wise-cracking.

"And maybe we can talk."

Silence greeted the comment, but Hardcastle could tell that he'd hit Mark's curiosity nerve. McCormick sat up a little in his seat, forsaking the nap, for now, and turned to the judge.

"Do you want me to check the map for a town, someplace to stop?"

"Nah, I know where I'm goin'. You just sit and relax. Jeff wanted you to relax."

"Jeff. Pffft."

"I take it you're not a fan of the good doctor," Hardcastle noted casually.

"He's all right. Nuts, but all right."

"Yeah, 'pffft' is a ringing endorsement." The judge got no reply. "You know, he thinks I'm your good luck charm."

Mark looked at the judge. A smirk came to his face; it was the nearest the ex-con had been to a smile all day. He'd woken up that morning sweaty and nauseous, feeling not all that much better than when they'd still been out in the wilds of Oregon. This had been some miserable reaction to a bug bite. McCormick had only eaten a piece of toast and a small amount of the apple juice that he'd ordered for breakfast. They'd pulled over once when Mark thought he was going to be sick. He hadn't been. Hardcastle thought he might feel better if he did throw up, but he wondered more than once if his friend was subconsciously fighting the urge, disinclined to look weak in front of the judge.

"Now I know for a fact that the man is insane. Right up there with Taylor." McCormick had no need to name the names of others they'd chased and apprehended who easily fit the same description as the crazed environmentalist.

"Now, now. Be nice. He helped you, didn't he?"

"It's kinda hard to tell," Mark replied as he rubbed his head again.

"That headache is probably from not eating."

Mark gave the retired jurist a 'hmph' in return and rested his head against the back of the seat. He closed his eyes and left the driving and the navigating and the unsolicited surmising on the origins of his headache to his partner in crime.

Before long the judge was nudging McCormick to wake up.

"We're here," Hardcastle announced.

"Where's here?" Mark asked. He opened the door and stepped out gingerly with the aid of the hand-crafted cane that the judge had purchased for him at an old country store adjacent to the last gas station in Oregon before crossing over into California. Filling up the tank in the more northern of the two states had saved the retired jurist almost three dollars; Hardcastle was pleased with himself at the savings. Mark had snorted a laugh when his friend came back after a quick sojourn to the rest room, the cane in hand. It had simple beauty about it, and was carved from a single piece of hardwood by a member of the Paiute Indian tribe nearby. It wasn't an old piece, and it only cost about twenty bucks - nearly seven times as much as the gas savings.

"This is _Nancy's Elkhorn Family Lodge_. You'll have a meal to remember here," Hardcastle said enthusiastically.

"'Nancy's', huh?" Mark asked curiously.

"Just a coincidence. Nancy and I found this place on one of our family vacations. We liked it, and we always made sure to come back whenever we drove up this way."

"Looks nice. What town are we in?"

"Elk Creek. Do you see that?" the judge asked, pointing to the side of the building where the grass seemed to grow longer and more lush than the short lawn leading up to it.

McCormick's mouth morphed to a wry grin. "Don't tell me. No, no, really," Mark said, making a big deal out of, well, nothing. "Let me guess. Let's see. . .that's the _actual_ Elk Creek," gesturing to it like a model on a game show.

Hardcastle looked at McCormick's sly grin and realized that it really wasn't much of a creek, at least not this day. "Feeling smart, are ya?"

"No, not really," Mark replied quietly as he joined Hardcastle on their way to the lodge. They walked into the lobby. It was a _great_ room, similar to the kind that would be found in a grand old western lodge, only on a much smaller scale. The room's centerpiece was a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace with a wood-burning stove insert. The elk horn and deer head décor wasn't much to McCormick's liking, but the place had a nice ambience to it, despite all of the evidence of dead animals hanging everywhere. Mark had never been fond of disembodied heads staring down at him. To the right of the great room was check-in for the guests staying at the lodge, and to the left was the restaurant. They walked in and were seated quickly; there were few people in the restaurant this soon before the lunch hour, though McCormick wasn't too sure whether this place ever got a hefty business. Their waitress introduced herself as Angie and left to get them their drink orders.

"So, what are you gonna have?" Milt asked once they'd both had a chance to check out the menu.

Mark closed his menu, pushed it aside, and replied, "I told you, I'm not hungry."

"I know what you told me, but you need to eat something. You barely touched your dinner. . ." Mark interrupted.

"That's not true."

"And what you ate this morning hardly qualifies as the Breakfast of Champions."

"Look, Judge, I really don't feel good. And I don't see the point in tempting fate, especially if fate is gonna bite me in the butt later and have me plaster my lunch all over the side of the road in an hour. Or worse, in _your_ truck."

"Let's ask Angie if she has something good for a tender stomach."

"Let's not. . ."

"Here she comes."

"Juuudge," Mark warned.

"Hey, Angie. Mark here isn't feeling so hot. What've you got that he's not liable to upchuck in a little while?"

Mark rested his head in his hands, his elbows on the table, and said just above a whisper, "Oh, God."

"Aw, I'm sorry you're not feeling well. Don't feel bad about it," she said as she patted Mark's shoulder. He kept his head in his hands. "You know, I think Charlie has some chicken soup left over from yesterday. It's not on the menu today because there's not enough for the lunch crowd. Let me go check."

"Ang. . ." McCormick started to protest, finally lifting his head, but she was gone before he had any shot at stopping her. He looked back at the judge and said, "Didya have to do that?"

"Do what? I was just tryin' to get something in your stomach. It'll make you feel better."

"And I'm telling you that I think it's a bad idea. Why can't you just listen to me?"

"I listen to you."

"You don't," Mark insisted. Hardcastle looked McCormick in the eye. The kid couldn't really think that. He'd listened to him plenty, any number of times, on cases they worked, on what to have for dinner, on. . .oh. Well, there were some key times, the judge guessed, where he hadn't listened to McCormick. Certainly Mark's perception during his trial and sentencing was that he hadn't been listened to. His innocence about stealing the Coyote hadn't been listened to; McCormick's only way out had been to agree to Hardcastle's deal. The jurist could see how Mark would look at those times from an entirely different viewpoint. As Hardcastle looked back on the last couple of years, he could identify some of the other times when he _truly_ hadn't listened to McCormick. But there had been far more times when he had, and their amazing chemistry and ability to communicate were major reasons that they worked so well as a team. The judge figured that this last time of _not_ listening had turned into a pretty big example in McCormick's head. Two times, actually; one was nixing the Hawaii trip, but getting on that plane , which Mark had been adamant about not wanting to do, had been a far bigger deal. Hardcastle was sure he had a double-whammy against him right now in McCormick's eyes.

"Okay, sometimes I don't. But that doesn't mean that I'm always wrong when I don't. And you're not always right!" Mark raised his eyebrow, barely visible now under the long, drooping locks, waiting to see where this was going. "I concede," the judge said, cocking his head to the side and then looking down at the placemat decorated with the state parks of northern California, "this time I should've listened."

Mark looked at his friend, happy for the very small concession. It didn't really mean anything, not in the overall scheme of their lives, and it was really minor in comparison to what they'd just survived this last month. But it gave McCormick the opening he wanted; the chance to call the conversation over, because he really wasn't in the mood for _this_ conversation.

"Yeah, well, we all make mistakes, Hardcase." He rested his head on his arms, which he folded on the table, and mumbled into them, "Wake me when lunch is over."

Hardcastle watched as the too-long curls fell over the folded arms. After all that Mark had been through in his life, his father leaving he and his mother, and then losing his mother as a young teen, the race car driving not working out. . .the stints in prison. All of these things could have turned Mark McCormick into a hard, bitter man. But Milt was forever impressed with Mark's easy, forgiving nature, and of what an overflowing, generous spirit he had. Very little had been given to _him_ generously in his life, and McCormick had plenty of reason to hold a grudge, to carry a chip on his young shoulders, especially with the way Sonny had treated him, both as a youth and as an adult. But he didn't. The judge even knew that Mark had forgiven _him_ for that time in prison, in spite of the threats over these last years to put the kid back there.

It had been more than easy for Hardcastle's feelings to change. The metamorphosis was far from gradual. In fact, by the judge's estimate, McCormick had really had the older man wrapped around his little finger fairly early on. Now. . .today, he could not fathom not having Mark around. Milt never thought it would happen, that someone would enter his life who could make-up for the loss of his son. He would never forget his dear boy, just as he would never forget his beloved Nancy. But this man, this young man from New Jersey had done the near-impossible. Milt Hardcastle's gratefulness was boundless. His love for this person, life-saving.

So why hadn't he told Mark any of this? And why, to this moment, did he hesitate to have that very important conversation with him?

"Okay," Angie said as she returned to the table. Mark lifted his head. The judge noticed his eyes already had become somewhat bleary from the short rest.

"Charlie's going to heat up the soup and he's going to make you a sandwich. It'll be grilled cheese, lightly buttered. He says that the soup will set well and wake up your appetite, and the sandwich will be easy on your stomach."

McCormick looked to the waitress warily and smiled. "I'll give it a try."

"Now yer cookin'," the judge said affectionately. "I'll have the steak sandwich and French fries," Milt said to Angie as he closed his menu and handed both his and McCormick's to the waitress.

"It's your truck's funeral," Mark noted wryly.

"Ah, I'm not worried. Charlie and Angie'll take care of ya."

"You bet we will," Angie said as she took their order to the kitchen.

"You've eaten here before. Do you know Angie and Charlie?"

"No. When Nancy and I would come, we kept pretty much to ourselves. I doubt that they even realized we were repeat customers."

Mark looked at the judge as he spoke of his late wife. He wondered how he did it. And then he decided to ask.

"It doesn't bother you anymore, does it?"

"What?"

"Talking about Nancy."

Hardcastle's eyes changed, so quickly, and McCormick was sure that in one short moment he'd made a huge mistake: over-stepping his boundary where the judge and his family were concerned. He'd done it once before and he remembered how awful it felt to hear the judge with that admonishing comeback. He knew he wasn't the judge's son, but he was sure about how amazing it would have been if he had been. Mark kept the eye contact, ready to take his medicine like a man if Milt needed to go there. Mark knew how special those memories were to Milt Hardcastle. He shouldn't have asked. But as he was thinking this, he saw another change, a slight brightening in the blue eyes, and then looked down a little further to see the smile broaden across the judge's ruddy face.

"She was a great girl. And it used to be hard just to think about her, let alone talk about her. Why do you ask?"

It was an invitation that McCormick hadn't expected, but he was not going to miss out on the opportunity to learn more about this forever fascinating person sitting before him. "Because after all this time, I still find it hard to talk about my mom. I wish I could be more like you."

Those were words that the judge never figured to hear coming from Mark McCormick's lips.

"No," Milt said. Mark looked at him quizzically. "The reason I can talk about Nancy today is because of you. You've taught me about being open again, about opening myself up."

"I don't know, Judge. You've always been pretty open about your feelings, at least to me."

"That's not what I mean, McCormick. Besides, someone's got to keep you in line."

"And I got lucky and won you as my chaperone." Mark smiled when he said it.

"You betcha." Hardcastle smiled right back. He paused and took a drink and then continued. "When I'd lost the two people who meant the world to me – who _were_ my world - I figured I didn't need to be that way with people again, you know, that close." The retired jurist smiled, a soft, gentle and genuine smile for his young friend. "It's not surprising that it's hard for you to talk about your mom. You've had a hard time of it, and it's not like Sonny was around to help you."

"Let's not talk about him."

"I don't want to. I'm just sayin', I understand why you keep those memories of your mother to yourself. You have precious few of them, and they're yours, nobody else's." The judge also knew that the life Mark had lead since his mother died gave him very few opportunities to talk about her, and even fewer people in his life who would be willing to listen.

"But you can talk about your wife," McCormick protested.

"Like I said, I haven't, not much, up 'til now. You know that."

"Aren't those memories precious to you?" Mark asked in a sad voice.

"Of course they are. But I have so many that I can let a few of 'em out. Like I said, she was a great girl."

"You were lucky to have found the love of your life. That obviously wasn't true for my mom and dad."

"I was lucky, Kiddo. But it's a lot of work, marriage."

"I'm sure it is, which was probably part of Sonny's problem."

"I thought we weren't talking about him," Hardcastle reminded gently.

"We're not," Mark agreed as he smiled at his friend. "So, will you tell me a little about Nancy?"

And Milt did. Not too much detail, because some memories' details are better left to the memory. But he told Mark more about how they'd met, a lot more than the few snippets Mark had learned when those Nazis had come looking for gold, abducted him, and messed up the beach below the estate. He talked a little about the struggles of being his own man in the face of Nancy's extremely wealthy father. He talked about Nancy's pregnancy – the funny stories of her cravings, or not wanting to change her daily schedule as she grew larger and larger.

He did not talk about his son.

Their food was brought out, and the judge dove in, the tales of Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle having stirred up his appetite. McCormick was far more tentative, starting with the soup. But the judge's regaling him with stories of his life, because it was really learning more about the judge for which Mark had far more of an appetite, did seem to have a positive effect on his ability to eat the soup, and some of the sandwich.

The stories, by the end of their meals, had turned to the end of Nancy's life. Hardcastle had steered well clear of melancholy; he had impressed upon McCormick how lucky he had been to have Nancy in his life. Mark was so pleased about that; that the man he had come to care so much about had experienced such a love in his life was comforting to his own soul. But with all that had gone on of late, their struggles these last weeks, his foot and his illness, he couldn't help but feel a little melancholy, too. He suspected some of that was just reaction to all that had gone on, and the fact that they were finished with lunch, which likely meant the end of the stories. Mark thought that the judge was feeling generous out here, away from everything they knew, and also probably felt a little sorry for him, considering what he had said about his mother earlier.

He already missed hearing the stories.

Hardcastle paid their bill, and they both made use of the lodge's facilities before getting back on the road. Mark had only finished about half of the soup and half a sandwich, which wasn't bad considering his success with meals since they'd made their way to town from their long walk in the woods. And of course, therein lay another possibility regarding the melancholy. They were readying to get back in the truck, and McCormick knew that once they started moving, the symptoms of this annoying reaction might start to kick in again, the headache and the nausea. It was fine while he'd kept little in his stomach, but now, all bets were off.

They took their seats, but Hardcastle didn't start the truck.

"What?" Mark asked.

Hardcastle sat looking to the right, his arm up on the back of the seat of the pick-up, his hand close to McCormick's shoulder. To Mark, his face gave away nothing if not pain, though the grimace was confusing following the judge's lightened mood after reminiscing about his wife.

"What's wrong? Don't you feel good? I think I can manage driving…"

"Cut it out. I'm fine and I'm not allowing you to drive. You're more than a few days away from driving."

"Then what?"

Milt moved his hand to rest on Mark's shoulder. Mark arched his head down, pulling his chin in to be able to see the hand, and frowned at the gesture.

"Something's wrong. Are you dying?" His eyes got big. "Am _I_ dying?"

"Knock if off." The judge lightly rapped Mark against the back of his head. Mark laughed, nervously.

"Then what's goin' on? If we don't get moving, we won't get home today."

"We'll get going soon enough. I just wanted to tell you that I'm real proud of you, for making it out there," the judge said, nodding his head back in the direction from whence they came. "You're a scrappy kid."

Mark looked away shyly. "I don't think that's news, Judge."

Hardcastle massaged Mark's neck, long enough for McCormick to finally look back up. "I haven't told you this, and I think mostly that's because I don't want you to get too big for your britches."

Mark smirked a little, his eyebrows raising, no longer in sight due to the long hair. "Um, okay. . .Pop," he kidded.

"What I'm trying to say is that what I told you before, about wanting someone around for my retirement? That was all true, but something happened that surprised me."

"You finally figured out that you like me, _you really like me_!" McCormick added in his best Sally Field impersonation. The actress had recently won her second Oscar with that memorable line during her acceptance speech. Even though there weren't a lot of movies Hardcastle liked these days, he always seemed interested in the Academy Awards broadcast. Mark guessed that was something that Nancy Hardcastle used to like to do, and was a ritual that the judge had gotten used to, and was somehow comforting to him.

"Very funny. What I'm tryin' to tell you is that having you around has made my life, you know, better. You've filled a hole in my life that I never expected to be filled." Milt rubbed Mark's shoulder some more. "I feel real lucky." He looked closer into Mark's eyes. "I love ya, Kid. I just thought it was time I told you that."

All of the color left McCormick's face in that moment. He put a shaky hand to his face. He felt lightheaded.

"Hey, Sport, are ya'all right?" the judge asked as he reached his hand up to remove McCormick's. "What's the matter?"

Mark pulled his hand back and then put both hands on his face. He rubbed his face, up and down, and then stopped, leaving the fleshy part of his palms pressed against his eyes. He let out what Hardcastle first thought was a sigh, but then realized was a sob.

"Hey, hey," the older man said as he put his hand back on Mark's shoulder, kneading it, and then moving the massage up to his young friend's neck once more. "I gotta tell ya, kid, I wasn't expecting that reaction."

Mark sniffed. With a voice drenched with emotion, he countered, "Neither was I." He wiped his eyes, though it did little to remove the obvious hint of wetness there. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. If anyone should be sorry, it's me. I shoulda told you this before. I didn't realize. . .well, anyway. . .I'm sorry."

Mark turned some more so that he could face the judge more directly, despite the discomfort the movement caused his foot. "I was serious when I said that I never expected to feel this way about someone again."

"I didn't think you'd remember saying it. You passed out right after you did."

Mark snorted, but immediately turned serious. "You mean more to me than anybody," Mark said earnestly. "I know we fight. . ."

"It's not really fighting," Hardcastle challenged.

"Oh, it's fighting, Hardcase."

"Well, maybe it is, but it hasn't felt like. . ." Hardcastle paused, not sure how to put it. "It's not like how it was, when we first started this."

"I hoped some bad things would come your way, Judge. Back then."

"I'm sure you did," Hardcastle said, a lightness to his tone.

Mark smiled. "I was so angry." Milt just nodded his head. Mark wiped his eyes again. "I'm glad things are different now. I love what we do, even if I complain about it."

"Even if our little adventures put you in danger?" They both knew they were not discussing these last four weeks.

"I have learned that what we do is important." Mark looked down, picking at a spot on his jeans, and then up again, seeming younger than ever in the judge's eyes. "I love you, Judge. The thought of anything happening to you now makes me crazy."

"Me, too, Kiddo. Which is why we might want to talk about not doing this stuff anymore."

Mark's eyes grew wide. "What? No. No, no. We can still do this. We're good at it."

"It's fun, too. Admit it," Hardcastle said with a twinkle in his eye.

"Well, it's fun, until it's not. But working with you is what I wanna do."

"We need to be more careful. There's a whole lot more at stake. Now." McCormick barely nodded, but the judge saw the agreement, knew that Mark understood what he was saying. "Mark, you have done what I said could never happen. You are like a son to me. I'm sorry about what I said back then."

"Don't be. I understand. But I'm glad you feel that way, because you've been. . .are more of a father than Sonny ever could be."

"I thought we weren't talking about him," Hardcastle said with a warm smile.

"We're not. How about we get on the road and see how this food settles."

"How're ya feeling?" the judge asked as he turned the key to start the truck.

Mark McCormick didn't know if he could answer right then. His throat felt tight, his heart pounded, but none of it was from being sick. He smiled broadly at the person sitting beside him and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes for fear of more tears falling if he continued to look at this great man who loved him. He rested, per doctor's orders, finally, confident that Hardcastle would understand the silence.

The End.


End file.
